


vestimenta

by mistycodec



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistycodec/pseuds/mistycodec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford comes up with one last shot at defeating Bill and the twins swap outfits, but old feelings begin to surface as more clothing gets discarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	vestimenta

“This isn’t going to work.”

Stan stood facing away from his brother as he began to peel off his tattered suit jacket with shaking hands. Neither twin was sure how long Dipper and Mabel could keep Bill occupied, and time had never been more of essence. They were good, smart kids, but Stan couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad might happen to them while he was stuck in a goddamn neon blue cage.

“Of course it will.” Ford sounded so sure of himself yet his voice still quavered with an unmistakable hint of nervousness. It was the almost hidden lilt at the end of his sentence that tipped Stan off. Thirty years Ford was stuck in some sci-fi dimension, yet some things still hadn’t changed. Ford eased off his trench coat and let it fall to the floor of the Fearamid with an audible _thump_. “Bill will be so pleased that I agree to make a deal with him he won’t even realize it’s the _wrong_ me.”

“Yeah yeah, if you say so.” Ford’s plan was seemingly foolproof. Once they swapped clothes, Stan would pretend to be Ford and seal the deal with Bill, trapping the demon inside his mind. Then, it would be up to Ford to erase Bill from Stan’s mind for good. It was so stupidly simple Stan wished he could have come up with it himself.

“It’s not like you _haven’t_ been pretending to be me for the past thirty years,” Ford added. He tugged his sweater over his head and it too joined the growing pile of clothing. “Just…keep up that farce of yours and everything will go according to plan.”

Stan’s eye twitched. “Farce?!” After shedding his own shirt Stan turned around to retort but was met with the sight of Ford slowly easing his pants down over his hips. The thick denim clung to his legs and tugged at the waistband of Ford’s underwear, pulling it down in tandem and revealing the smooth milky skin of his brother’s ass. Stan realized he had been staring wordlessly far too long and he looked away, his cheeks already beginning to turn flush.

It had been quite some time since they stripped in each other’s company. As Stan began to undo the button on his pants, he allowed his mind to wander to places it really shouldn’t be while facing the very real possibility of death by dream demon.

It was prom night, 1971. They had sped home together in the El Diablo, laughing wildly into the hot summer night. Their rented tuxes were stained beyond repair with punch, and there was nothing more to do than to take them off, hide them somewhere and make up the deposit money somehow. As Stan stepped out of his pants and placed them onto the floor he recalled how damp Ford’s hair was, skin sticky and tasting faintly of peaches, how good it had felt under his touch as they held each other in the floor of their shared bedroom, how Stan had whispered in Ford’s ear about how that girl didn’t matter one fucking bit, and how he had locked away every one of Ford’s insecurities that night with soft presses of his lips.

The muted light of the neon pawn shop sign faded into the deep shadows of Stan’s bedroom. The floor creaked as Ford shifted on his feet. The unease in the air was palpable. “Are you positive you wish to see me like this?”

Stan swallowed. “Yeah.” He reached out towards his twin to curl his fingers beneath Ford’s sweater. “Yeah, Sixer, I do—”

Ford stilled Stan’s hand before slowly peeling the fabric off his body, letting it drop to the floor. A wounded noise climbed its way out of Stan’s throat and he reached out again, carefully brushing his fingertips against Ford’s skin. The scars weren’t numerous but large and twisted, covering most of his brother’s torso before trailing away to hide beneath the waistband of Ford’s pants. “Stanford,” Stan breathed, moving his hands up and down the length of every raised and puckered run of skin. Stan touched Ford with an almost fearful revenance, for Stan knew that if he stepped away he could not be sure of how badly they both would shatter.

“It’s alright,” Ford said softly. “Most of them are very old and they don’t hurt anymore. Just a few phantom pains here and there.”

“Stanford,” Stan repeated, this time with more conviction. In a rare moment of lucidity, he ran the tip of his tongue over one of the scars and Ford jolted. Stan hesitated, waited for Ford to give him an out, yet Ford remained still in Stan’s touch. This time, Stan did not hesitate to lick a hot, wet stripe down the center of Ford’s torso all the way to his brother’s navel. “’M gonna be honest…I wanna find whoever did this to you an’ kill ‘em. B-But right now,” he paused for a moment to catch his breath, trailing kisses all along the length of Ford’s scars, “these are a part of ya. And I’m gonna make damn sure you know these don’t matter a lick to me.” Stan felt more than saw the swift nod of Ford’s head before six trembling fingers threaded their way into Stan’s hair, nudging him slowly lower—

“Stanley.”

Ford’s voice broke Stan from his thoughts and he straightened up, kicking off his shoes with a grunt. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet. Everything alright?”

“Mhm.” In the distance Stan could hear the muffled sounds of crashing and the high pitched whine of what he assumed to be Bill. How long had he been standing here lost in his memories? “Yeah, Ford, everything’s just peachy fucking keen—”

Stan felt a strong hand on his arm and before he could squeak out a word of protest he felt himself whipped around and pulled into Ford’s arms. Ford claimed Stan’s lips in a hungry, bruising kiss and their bodies pressed flush against one another. It was five full seconds of contact, of limbs tangling together as both twins fought to express the utmost amount of passion they could muster. Stan licked into Ford’s mouth and for one heated moment Stan could feel all of Ford from the smoky wet heat of his mouth to the skin of his arms that rippled into gooseflesh. They broke away out of necessity, the crashing noise that had been occurring at steady intervals was now drawing closer, and they had so little time left and so much left to say.

“Sixer,” Stan gasped, and Ford lay a single finger on his brother’s lips.

“Get dressed, we haven’t much time.”

Now they faced each other as they donned each other’s clothes. Ford’s pants were slightly baggy around Stan’s hips but he didn’t mind. The fabric carried the lingering warmth of Ford’s body and Stan hummed to himself as he pulled the sweater over his head. He caught a whiff of some acric, coppery smell…smoke? As he toed his way into Ford’s boots he examined the hem of the maroon sweater, brow wrinkling in concern when he noticed just how frayed and _burned_ the wool was.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, gesturing at an ashen sleeve. Ford paused buttoning up Stan’s wrinkled shirt to look his twin squarely in the eye.

“It’s best if we don’t go there.”

Stan’s heart twitched as Ford continued to dress, almost indifferent to Stan’s query. If Ford didn’t want to talk about it—no. Bill couldn’t have—

“Your glasses, please.”

Stan’s lip quivered as he met Ford’s gaze. He had sat in that damned shack for nearly a week pissing and moaning about how bitter he was and hadn’t stopped once to consider what might have been happening to Ford. And now Stan’s mind was reeling with the thought of Ford’s high, unending screams as Bill lashed out at him over and over, slowly chipping away at Ford’s iron resolve. Stan almost let out a soft whimper. If he hadn’t been so ungodly stubborn…

Stan carefully removed his glasses and handed them over to Ford. “You know I won’t be able to see a damn thing without these.”

“It’ll be over before you know it.”

As they traded spectacles their fingers brushed together and Stan fought the urge to take hold of his twin’s hand and not to let go, not even when the kids returned with Bill hot on their tail. Stan was once more hit with the realization that their plan might very well fail, and if that was the case he had so very little time left with Ford.

“Stanley, there’s something I meant to tell you earlier.” Ford placed Stan’s battered fez atop his head and adjusted his glasses before continuing. “When I strike you with the memory gun, there is a very real possibility you will be erased along with Bill.”

Stan’s eyes widened briefly before softening in resignation. “You mean when I wake up, I’m not gonna remember anything?”

“I-I believe so.” Ford could no longer hide his feelings beneath the mask of carefully formed words and his voice shook. “I’m so sorry Stanley, I should have told you sooner.”

“It’s alright,” Stan smiled, placing a gentle hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Even if I’m not gonna remember you, we had a good run, y’know? I’ve lived a damn long life and I’ve got a lot of regrets, but you’re sure as hell not one of them.”

Ford’s lip trembled and the corners of his eyes were moist with tears that would not shed. “Stanley, I—”

“Love you too, poindexter.”

The crashing sound had reached its apex and the floor shuddered with the heavy footsteps of Bill’s physical being. Ford shot Stan a single worried glance before relaxing, allowing his shoulders to hunch forward in a flawless mimic of his brother’s posture. Stan breathed out once, twice, three times before straightening up and joining Ford’s side.

_Showtime._

**Author's Note:**

> (repost from my tumblr)
> 
> The finale was honestly more than anything I could have hoped for. Our ship LITERALLY sailed off. On a boat. Alone. Together. As far as I'm concerned this fic is canon, no ifs ands or buts.
> 
> It's been a wild ride everyone. Stay Weird.


End file.
